A Dangerous Love (3 page)

Dianna moaned. “I can see the future now—you will marry some radical socialist lawyer!”

“Perhaps I will. Can you truly see me as some proper gent's wife, staying at home, changing gowns throughout the day, a pretty, useless
ornament?
Except, of course, for the five, six or seven children I will have to bear, like a brood-mare!”

“That is a terrible way to look at marriage and family,” Dianna said, appearing stunned. “Is that what you think of me? Am I a pretty, useless ornament? Is my mother, is Aunt Lizzie, is our cousin Margery? And bearing children is a wonderful thing. You like children!”

How had this happened? Ariella wondered. “No, Dianna, I beg your pardon. I do not think of you in such terms. I adore you—you are my sister, and I am so proud of you. None of the women in our family are pretty, useless ornaments.”

“I am not stupid,” Dianna finally said. “I know you are brilliant. Everyone in this family says so. I know you are better read than just about every gentleman of our acquaintance. I know you think me foolish. But it isn't foolish to want a good marriage and children. To the contrary, it is admirable to want a home, a husband and children.”

Ariella backed off. “Of course it is—because you genuinely want those things.”

“And you don't. You want to be left alone to read book after book about strange people like the Mongols. It is very foolish to think of spending an entire lifetime consumed with the lives of foreigners and the dead! Unless, of course, you marry a gentleman for his
mind!
Has it ever occurred to you that one day you might regret such a choice?”

Ariella was surprised. “No, it hasn't.” She realized her little sister had grown up. She sighed. “I am not ruling out marriage, Dianna. But I am not in a rush, and I cannot ever marry if it will compromise my happiness.” She added, mostly to please her sister, “Perhaps one day I will find that once-in-a-lifetime love our family is so notorious for.”

Dianna grumbled, “Well, if so, I hope you are the single de Warenne who will escape the scandal so often associated with our family.”

Ariella smiled. “Please try to understand. I am very satisfied with my unfashionable status as an aging spinster.”

Dianna stared grimly. “No one is calling you an old spinster yet. Thank God you have a fortune, and the prospects that come with it. I am afraid you will have a great many regrets if you continue on this way.”

Ariella hugged her. “I won't. I swear it.” She laughed a little. “You feel like the older sister now!”

“I am sending Roselyn to help you dress. We are having an early supper—I cannot recall why. I will lend you my aquamarines. And I know you will be more than pleasant with Montgomery.” Her parting smile was firm, indicating that she had not changed her matrimonial schemes.

Ariella smiled back, her face plastered into a pleasant expression. She intended it to be the look she would wear for the entire evening, just to make Dianna happy.

 

E
MILIAN
S
T
X
AVIER
sat at his father's large, gilded desk in the library, unable to focus on the ledgers at hand. It was a rare moment, as his life was the estate. But an odd gnawing had begun earlier that day, a familiar restlessness. He hated such feelings, and was always determined to ignore them. But on days like this one, the house felt larger than ever, and even empty, although he kept a full staff.

He leaned back in his chair, objectively looking around the luxurious, high-ceilinged library. The room bore almost no resemblance to the room in which he had so often been chastised as a sullen boy, when he had been determined to cling to his differences with his father, pretending absolute indifference to Edmund's wishes and Woodland's affairs. But even when he had first arrived at the estate, his curiosity had been as strong as his wariness. He had never been inside an Englishman's home before, and Woodland had seemed palatial. Raiza had insisted he learn to read English, and he had stared at the books in the bookcase behind his father's head, wondering if he dared steal one so he could read it. Soon he had stolen book after book. In retrospect, he knew Edmund had known he was secretly reading philosophy, poetry and love stories in his bedroom.

Even though his mother had wanted him to leave the
kumpa'nia
and go to live with his father, he would never forget her tears and her grief. Edmund had broken her heart by taking him away from her, and he had hated Edmund for hurting Raiza. He had known that he would not be at Woodland if Edmund's firstborn, pure-blooded son had lived. His Rom pride, which was considerable, had demanded that he remain detached and indifferent to the life his father offered him.

His Rom blood had dictated suspicion and hostility. He had lived with
gadjo
hatred and prejudices his entire life. He knew his father had to be like all the other
gadjos.
But in truth, Edmund had been firm, but fair and compassionate, too. The adjustment to the English way of life had been so difficult that he couldn't see it. He'd run away several times, but Edmund had always found him. The last time he'd stolen a neighbor's horse, and he had been physically branded so that the world would see him as a horse thief before Edmund had appeared to take him home. He was hardly the first Rom to have a scarred right ear, and it was one of the reasons he wore his hair so long. Edmund had finally asked him to stay, telling him he would willingly let him leave when he turned sixteen, if that was what he still wished to do.

He had agreed—and in the end, decided on his own terms to stay. In the following years he had gone to Eton and then Oxford, excelling at both institutions. Yet their relationship had remained somewhat adversarial, as if Edmund never quite trusted his transformation into an Englishman. Emilian never quite trusted his father, either. Being Edmund's son and heir did not change the fact that his mother was Romany, and all of society knew it—including Edmund.

The condescension and scorn from his youth remained, but it was disguised now. To the
gadjos,
even those warming his bed, no amount of manners, education or wealth would ever change the “fact” that his inclination was to steal horses and cheat his neighbors. Every supper party and ball, every business affair, every paramour, had proven that—and proved it, still.

Edmund's death had been a tragic accident. Emilian had just graduated Oxford with the highest honors, and he had been traveling with the Roma. It had been his first visit to his mother, whom he hadn't seen since his father had taken him from her ten years before. Edmund's estate manager had written him. Upon learning of Edmund's sudden death in a hunting accident, Emilian had instantly rushed home.

Shocked that his father had died without his having had the chance to say goodbye, he had gone from his grave directly to his desk. All he could think of was the opportunities of the past—and that he hadn't ever thanked Edmund for a single one. He recalled his father teaching him how to ride, explaining every aspect of the estate to him, insisting that he receive the best possible education, and how Edmund had proudly taken him to every country affair, whether a tea, a supper party or a country ball, as if he was as English as anyone. He had sat down at his father's desk and begun poring over every account and ledger until his tears had made it impossible to read the pages. And in the end, a very English sense of duty had triumphed. He had been aware of his father's failures as the viscount; he had always known he could do far better. Now, he intended to set Woodland straight. Now, he intended to make Edmund proud of him.

And he had. In three years, he had managed to erase all debt from Woodland's accounts. The estate was currently making a handsome profit. There were new tenants, and their produce was being exported abroad, as well as sold at local markets. He was a partner in a freight company. There were profitable investments in a Birmingham mill and a national railway, but the coup de grâce was the St Xavier coal mine. The export of British coal grew in tonnage annually and he was cashing in on it. He was the wealthiest nobleman in Derbyshire, with one exception—the shipping magnate, Cliff de Warenne.

Emilian pushed the ledgers aside.

He did not know de Warenne personally—how could he? He had scorned society ever since coming into the title and the estate. From his first advent into society as a boy at Edmund's side, they had whispered about him behind his back, and nothing had changed except that he now expected it. He preferred avoiding all social intercourse, as it was nothing but a dull pretense for everyone involved. When he did sit down to a meal with Englishmen and their wives, it was with men who were important to him—the managers of his mine, his partners in the freight company, those who wished for him to invest in other ventures.

“My lord, sir?” His butler, Hoode, paused on the library's threshold. “You have callers.” Hoode handed him a small tray containing several cards.

Emilian was surprised. Callers were rare. His last visitor had been a widow with four sons whose family had blatantly informed him she was a good “breeder.” Now, as he took the cards, he fought to avoid cringing. As wealthy as he was, it was inevitable that marriage prospects were pressed upon him from time to time. The candidates were all excessively unmarriageable daughters. The crème de la crème were sent elsewhere to look for blue-blooded English husbands. He didn't give a damn. He didn't want children. Childhood was synonymous with misery and fear—and therefore he had no need of a wife, English or not.

He glanced at the cards and became still. These cards were not from families seeking marriage. One card belonged to his cousin, Robert, the others from Robert's friends.

“This is rich,” he murmured. There was only one reason why his cousin would call, as they could not stand each other. “Send Robert in, Hoode.” He stood, stretching his tall, muscular frame. He intended to enjoy the ensuing encounter, very much the way a basset would enjoy being locked in a small room with a mouse.

Robert St Xavier appeared instantly, smiling obsequiously, hand outstretched. Blond and plump, he boomed, “Emil, my God, it is good to see you, eh?”

Emilian folded his arms across his chest, refusing any handshake. “Shall we cut to the chase, Rob?”

Robert's smile faltered and he dropped his hand. “We are passing through,” Robert said in a jovial tone, “and I had hoped we could share a good bottle of wine. It has certainly been some time. And we are cousins!” He laughed, perhaps nervously or perhaps at the absurdity that any familial affection lay behind the claim. “We've taken rooms at the Buxton Inn. Will you join us?”

“How much do you want?” Emilian said coolly.

Robert's smile vanished. “This time I vow I will pay you back.”

“Really?” He lifted a brow. Robert had inherited a fortune from his father. He had spent every penny within two years. His life was dissolute and irresponsible, to say the least. “Then it would be a first. How much, Rob, do you need this time?”

Robert hesitated. “Five hundred, perhaps?”

“And that will last for how long? Most gentlemen can live off that sum for a year.”

“It will last a year, Emil, I swear it!”

“Don't bother swearing to me.” Emilian bent and reached for his checking book. He should let him starve. Too well, he recalled how Robert and his father had scorned him as “that Gypsy boy.” They had called him a dirty savage. But it was only
gadjo
money—and it was
his gadjo
money. He ripped the note from its pad and handed it to Robert.

“I can't thank you enough, Emil.”

He looked at him with disdain. “Have no fear—I will never collect anything from you.”

Robert's smile, plastered in place, never wavered. “Thank you,” he said again. “And would you mind if we spent the night here? It will save us a few pounds—”

Emilian waved at him dismissively. He didn't care if the trio stayed, for there was plenty of room at Woodland, enough that their paths would hardly cross. He moved toward the French doors and stared past his gardens at the rolling wooded hills that etched into the gray, fading horizon. He had a terrible sense that something was about to happen…. But it must be his imagination, he thought. Still, he looked at the sky again. Not even a thunderstorm was rolling in.

He turned at the sound of new voices. Two of Robert's equally disreputable friends had joined him, and Robert was showing them the draft. His friends were laughing and slapping him on the back, as if he had just managed some terrific feat.

“It pays to have a rich cousin, eh? Even if he is half Gypsy.” The man laughed.

“God only knows how he does it.” Robert grinned. “It's his English blood, of course, that makes him so wealthy.”

The third man leaned close. “Have you ever had a Gypsy wench?” He leered. “They're at Rose Hill—I heard it from a houseman.”

Emilian stiffened in surprise.
There were Roma nearby.
Had he sensed them all this time?

And suddenly a young Rom, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, stepped onto his flagstone terrace, staring at him through the French doors.